Pis Aller
by Hobster
Summary: Dean can only see one way to get his brother back and save the world. It's the last thing he'll ever do and he's glad to do it. Post S6


Dean's nightmares of hell still bother him sometimes. He doesn't let it show. (He tries not to let it show, at least.) They plague his mind with grotesque images, memories, of himself strung up by millions and millions of tiny, dirty fishhooks, each of them pulling hard in opposite directions. He sees himself digging into another damned soul with only his hands. It's not right, the way he feels about his entire experience.

He hates it. He abhors it. It hurt. It still hurts. But he liked it too. He enjoyed being off the rack. Dean Winchester enjoyed ripping the limbs of damned souls apart little by little. Enjoyed smashing their faces in with sledgehammers. Being tortured was one of the worst things to go through and after he got off the rack, it was like heaven.

He didn't have to do that anymore, suffer. But he still burnt. Hell was always burning. That was the one thing that was constant. Even the demons burned.

So that was the one thing that was always in his nightmares. The burning.

Still, his nightmares are always there, in the back of his mind, at the pit of his emptyemptyempty soul. He tries not to let them bother him and consequently tries not to let anyone else know of them. And it works.

Alcohol, girls, and a cocky sure-fire grin is all he needs to convince himself and those around him that he's okay. He's okay that he's seen everyone he loves die, even though Bobby, Castiel, and Sam were brought back. He's okay that Sam and Castiel went AWOL, betrayed his trust. He's okay, really. He'd forgiven them. They were family. It's just with each second that ticks away with Castiel gone, filled with the souls of so many purgatory monsters and beasties, his heart hardens just that much more.

He doesn't know how much more he can take. If Bobby were to ever betray his trust, that would be the end of him. He really, really couldn't take it then. He'd break. Completely.

Hell only fractured him. His resolve to stay on the rack to suffer so Sammy wouldn't have to might have broken, but it only fractured him in the long run. He would heal. If these night terrors would only go away, he might have had a better chance at recovering faster. It doesn't matter, he supposes, downing another glass of whiskey.

Dean has got a brother to take care of anyway. A brother that's also been to hell. A brother whose mental state is falling to pieces, trying to survive. Sam is in the middle of an inferno, taking the brunt of all the painful memories while Dean is slow burning, off the side where no one can see. Sam is in the middle, so Sam is what they're concerned for.

That is why he isn't saying anything. Sam is more important than he is. Besides, compared to Sam's time in the Pit, his time is barely a scratch on the surface. Sam was down there for a hundred years, at least. With two angry, hell-bent archangels that were ready to tear up whatever was around them. And they did. They tore Sam to bits. Over and over and over and over and over…

"What are you doing up, ya idgit?" Bobby says from behind him, putting his shotgun down after reapplying the safety. He thought that someone was in his house so he had brought the necessary equipment to get rid of intruders.

He is right, of course. There is an intruder. An intruder that is of the Winchester sort. And only in his kitchen.

Only they aren't really intruders at all. Just someone who isn't supposed to be awake. It's nearly five in the morning.

"Drinking my sorrows away. What does it look like?"

Bobby sighs and stares at the man before him, sitting in his old wooden kitchen chair. Bobby has this tingle in his gut, telling him something is up. Something is wrong. There are empty beer bottles around him. Maybe about three sit on the floor, two are on the table, along with a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He doesn't see the jar of dream root by Dean's ankle.

Bobby Singer doesn't ask if Dean is alright. His instincts are ignored. It's Dean. He'll be okay and he'll work through what's bothering him. He's been to hell and come back. Faced off all of Heaven and Hell. They'll fix Sam and save Castiel.

"It looks like you're tryin' to destroy your liver, boy." Bobby doesn't say anything else, of which Dean is most grateful. He doesn't want to hear the 'sullied liver' speech tonight. He's got too much on his mind and he just wants it all to go away. Mostly so he can sleep. He hasn't slept well in ages. Not since he was around six or seven and he was left alone to take care of Sam for the first time on his own in a dirty hotel room.

Dean's always looking after Sam. He'll do it forever.

When Bobby leaves, Dean waits a few more minutes until the creaking of the floorboards goes away. He stands, cup and jar in hand, and makes his way to where Sam is.

He doesn't know exactly how it will work, but he's got a dusty old scrap of a book that he found behind the refrigerator of Bobby's house. It had a spell in it, and Dean knows this is his pis aller. It's the very last thing he can do for his baby brother. His brother is barely hanging on. He can't survive if he doesn't do this.

He's got the spell memorized. He has enough silene capensis, dream-root, to last him months. He's lucky neither Bobby nor Sam have noticed it. Of course, Sam hasn't been active for a while, but still. No one's noticed and he's glad, because that means no one's going to interrupt him.

It takes a while. There is lots of shaking, lots of begging. When he finally has his little Sammy lucid enough to swallow some of the nasty-ass stuff, he gives a silent cry of relief. This might actually work.

He hangs his head, stares at the yellow tea in his own cup, and downs it in one go, fully prepared and Dean knows. He knows that he might not come out of this the same. Probably not even alive. Having to experience Hell will break a person once. Having to go through it twice—and at the intensity of what Sam's been through—is enough to shatter. But this is what he's been born to do.

Keep Sam safe.

Protect Sam.

He falls to sleep, unsure if he'll come back, but more than ready to die for his Sammy again. It's just how he is.

It's a lot different inside that he expected. He's in a forest and the trees are dark and looming, but there is sunshine seeping through the branches overhead. He can hear water flowing somewhere nearby and the wind that brushes over him seems chilling, but he's not cold.

He watches, confused and amazed, as a butterfly, larger than his hand, flutters by his head. He keeps silently reciting the spell to himself the farther he moves in Sam's head.

His dream.

His subconscious.

His soul.

He has a feeling it's going to get weirder, and with the weird will come all the hurt. His feeling is wrong though. The farther he goes, the taller the trees get and the less light there is. But it's not weird, just strange. There's nothing else. Just trees, him, wind, and a little light.

Why isn't there fire? Burning? Destruction, chaos? Why isn't there any evidence that something was wrong?

He feels like he'll never find Sam in all this calm, but in his heart of hearts, he can tell that he's going in the right direction. And he's right.

After what feels like an hour, he comes upon a clearing. It's completely dark, but somehow he can see.

There's no movement in the air, but the tall grass that surrounds the perimeter of the circle made by the trees is swaying and growing up and shrinking down. As if someone is breathing, as if they are breathing for someone. Dean knows this is where his brother is. He walks into the middle and there is where he finds his brother, curled up and unmoving, just like he is upstairs, laying in one of Bobby's spare beds.

He drops to his knees and gathers his little brother into his lap. He's not going to cry, dammit, but he can feel the tears behind his eyelids. He blinks them back a few times and presses his forehead against Sam's.

The chanting seems like it takes hours, but it's only a few minutes. His voice is strong and smooth. He doesn't break, but he lets a few tears fall. All through the chant, he is writing in the dirt. It's a message for Sam and he knows it will always be there. It will survive through everything.

"Aufero poena ex unus ut est diligo. Signum vulnus of animus. Repleo foramen per rutilus sanctimonia. Quis est perfectus est perfectus. A animus est donatus sic unus vires ago. suscipio meus own vita pro ultimate tutela pro unus ut est carus volo."

People have pushed Dean aside in favor of Sam so many times. He's done it to himself too. It's really not an issue anymore. Hardly ever has been.

"Servo monumentum , tamen take vulnero. Locus usque vulnus in castellanus. salus illae unus usquequaque adveho primoris. Is est meus ultimate mos. A vita donatus sic a vita may exsisto servo."

Dean can feel the power flowing through them both. He can see the light that surrounds them, flowing out of himself and into his brother. The wounds that are on Sam disappear and he can see that he is finally relaxing.

It worked. Sammy, his little Sammy. He's safe. It worked. Hell can't reach him.

_I love you, Sam._

Dean's green eyes grow dull and they close as he falls down into the grass. His body fades away, out of Sam's brightening subconscious.

Sam's eyes open and his sits up entirely too quickly. The first thing he does is yell for Bobby because the only thing he can see is his older brother's body, kneeling at the side of his bed.

Physically, he feels great. Mentally, he's completely stable. He can't feel a single bit of hurt. He doesn't ache at all. He doesn't burn. Not anymore. There is a sharp pain in his chest.

Dean isn't breathing, but he's got a smile on his face and four horseman rings clutched in his hands.

A very rough translation job. I do not speak any kind of Latin, so that's probably all wrong. But here's what they translator said I was saying: _Remove the pain from the one that is loved. Seal the wounds of the soul. Fill the holes with shining purity. What is done is done. A soul is given so one might live. Receive my own life in return for the ultimate protection for the one that is dearest to me. Keep the memories, but remove the hurt. Place all the wounds on the caster. May the safety of this one always come first. This is my ultimate will. A life given so a life may be saved. _

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><p>Thanks for reading!<em><br>_


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